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UNE PÉDAGOGIE DU PLURALISME LOGIQUE


Andrew Nightingale

Dédié à mes amis imparfaits, Maheva Hellwig et Pierre Lamarque


Résumé

Cet article soutient que le pluralisme logique repose non seulement sur des notions divergentes de conséquence logique, mais aussi sur le vague de la négation elle-même. Si la négation est comprise comme un acte de distinction, alors de multiples systèmes logiques découlent de différentes manières de préciser ces distinctions. Cela recadre le pluralisme logique en le fondant sur l’instabilité de la distinction plutôt que sur de simples relations de conséquence concurrentes. Dans cette perspective, la logique ne devrait pas être enseignée comme un système figé, mais comme un espace de navigation entre plusieurs cadres. Pour soutenir cette approche pédagogique, un outil en ligne — Logic Puzzle — a été développé afin de permettre aux étudiants de construire et de comparer des énoncés logiques à travers les logiques classique, paraconsistante et constructive. Une étude empirique préliminaire suggère que l’exposition au pluralisme logique renforce le sentiment de flexibilité conceptuelle des étudiants et leur perception du lien entre la logique et le raisonnement quotidien.


Enseigner le sens sans fondements : une pédagogie du pluralisme logique

La logique est souvent enseignée comme si son opération la plus fondamentale — la négation — était stable, sans ambiguïté et universellement fixe. L’expression « non P » est traitée comme si elle remplissait une fonction unique et bien définie dans tous les contextes. Cette hypothèse sous-tend la logique classique, où des lois telles que l’élimination de la double négation (~~P → P) sont considérées comme fondamentales.

Pourtant, cette stabilité apparente s’effrite d’un système logique à l’autre. En logique constructive, la double négation ne s’effondre pas de la même manière. En logique paraconsistante, les contradictions impliquant la négation ne se comportent pas comme elles le font en logique classique. Un même symbole – la négation – endosse des rôles structurellement différents. Ce qui semble être une opération unique se fracture en de multiples formes.

Cet article soutient que cette fragmentation n’est pas fortuite, mais fondamentale. J’appelle « monisme de la négation » l’hypothèse standard selon laquelle la négation est une opération unique et stable. Contre cette vision, je soutiens que la négation elle-même est vague. Une fois cela reconnu, le pluralisme logique ne peut plus être compris simplement comme une pluralité de relations de conséquence, mais doit s’ancrer plus profondément dans l’instabilité de la distinction elle-même.

Si la négation est comprise, à la suite de Peirce, comme un acte de distinction, alors les multiples systèmes logiques reflètent de multiples façons de tracer des frontières entre ce qui est et ce qui n’est pas. La logique classique représente une façon de stabiliser cet acte, mais ce n’est pas la seule. Cela a des implications directes pour la pédagogie. La logique ne peut être enseignée de manière adéquate comme un système fermé fondé sur des opérations fixes ; elle doit plutôt être présentée comme un champ de mouvement à travers des cadres multiples et sensibles au contexte.

Le pluralisme logique est généralement défini comme la conception selon laquelle il existe plusieurs logiques déductives valables. Les théories contemporaines décrivent souvent cette pluralité en termes de relations de conséquence différentes. D’autres approches considèrent les logiques comme des modèles du langage ou comme des outils adaptés à des fins diverses. D’un point de vue historique, les tendances pluralistes remontent aux débats stoïciens, aux cadres linguistiques de Carnap et à la critique de Lakatos à l’égard des structures de preuve formelles. La prédominance de la logique classique dans l’enseignement est étroitement liée à la méthode axiomatique d’Euclide, qui a façonné la présentation du savoir pendant des siècles. Cependant, des développements tels que la géométrie non euclidienne et les systèmes logiques alternatifs remettent en cause l’idée qu’une seule structure fondamentale régit tout le raisonnement.

Les arguments classiques en faveur du pluralisme logique font souvent appel au vague de la conséquence logique ou au rôle du raisonnement probabiliste. Cet article change de perspective. La source du pluralisme ne réside pas seulement dans la conséquence, mais dans la négation elle-même.

L’argument central de cet article est que le pluralisme logique trouve son fondement dans le vague de la négation. Si la négation est comprise comme une distinction, alors le pluralisme découle de l’existence de multiples types de distinction. Il ne s’agit pas simplement de variations au sein d’une seule opération, mais de manières fondamentalement différentes de tracer des frontières.

Avant de poursuivre, il est important de distinguer le vague de la généralité. Une affirmation générale s’applique à de nombreux cas sans en préciser lesquels ; chaque application particulière peut néanmoins être parfaitement déterminée. Le vague est différent : il concerne les cas où l’application d’un concept est elle-même indéterminée — où aucune information supplémentaire ne permet de déterminer si le concept s’applique. Ce que nous affirmons ici, ce n’est pas que la négation est simplement générale, applicable à de multiples contextes tout en restant précise dans chacun d’eux. C’est que la négation est vague : il existe des cas où l’opération en jeu est véritablement indéterminée, et où les précisifications concurrentes ne sont pas simplement différentes, mais incompatibles. Une conception plus abstraite ou plus générale de la négation ne dissout pas cette indétermination ; elle la déplace.

La logique classique suppose ce que l’on pourrait appeler un monisme de la négation : l’idée qu’il existe une opération de négation unique et stable sous-jacente à tout raisonnement. Cette hypothèse se reflète dans des principes tels que l’élimination de la double négation. Pour que ce principe s’applique universellement, les deux instances de négation doivent être la même opération. Si ce n’est pas le cas — si des actes de négation différents sont en jeu —, alors appliquer deux fois la négation ne ramène pas nécessairement à la proposition d’origine.

Cette possibilité reflète une instabilité plus profonde inhérente au concept même de différence. Prenons des exemples courants. Une étoile à neutrons diffère d’une question, et un citron diffère d’un citron vert. Dans les deux cas, on dit que les objets sont distincts, mais les types de différence en jeu ne sont pas les mêmes. L’une est une différence entre catégories, l’autre au sein d’une même catégorie. Dire simplement qu’ils sont distincts laisse indéterminée la nature de leur distinction. En ce sens, le concept de distinction est lui-même indistinct.

Les tentatives visant à résoudre cette ambiguïté en renforçant la précision ne parviennent pas à éliminer le problème. On pourrait tenter de répertorier toutes sortes de distinctions, en attribuant à chacune une définition précise. Mais cela conduit à des distinctions entre les distinctions, puis à d’autres distinctions à des niveaux supérieurs. L’effort visant à éliminer le vague par le raffinement produit une hiérarchie ouverte. Cela reflète des problèmes familiers liés au vague. Lorsqu’on tente de localiser une frontière précise — telle que le bord d’un objet physique —, une plus grande précision conduit à une plus grande indétermination. L’agrandissement ne révèle pas une limite définitive ; il la dissout.

Dans cette perspective, la négation classique peut être comprise comme une manière de rendre la distinction précise — une manière qui impose une opposition binaire stricte entre P et non-P. D’autres systèmes logiques adoptent des précisifications différentes. Les logiques paraconsistantes assouplissent la frontière entre P et non-P, permettant des contradictions sans effondrement. La logique constructive lie la négation aux notions de construction et d’impossibilité, produisant une interprétation tout à fait différente. Ces systèmes ne se contentent pas de réinterpréter une opération fixe ; ils définissent des opérations différentes sous un nom commun.

Il n’existe donc pas d’opération de négation unique, mais une famille d’opérations dépendantes du contexte, unifiées de manière seulement approximative par leur rôle dans l’établissement de distinctions. Le pluralisme logique ne reflète pas une prolifération externe de systèmes, mais une instabilité au sein même du concept central de la négation.

Cela redéfinit la relation entre le vague et la logique. Le vague est souvent considéré comme un défaut qu’il convient d’éliminer par des définitions plus précises. Ici, il est compris comme inhérent aux opérations que la logique formalise. L’acte de distinction ne peut être rendu pleinement déterminé, car les critères de distinction eux-mêmes admettent des précisifications multiples et incompatibles. Les systèmes logiques organisent cette indétermination ; ils ne la suppriment pas.

Dans ce sens, le vague est une caractéristique de la recherche plutôt qu’un défaut. Les tentatives visant à l’éliminer — par la mesure, la formalisation ou des définitions de plus en plus précises — le reproduisent à des échelles plus fines. La limite d’un objet physique, lorsqu’on l’examine de près, devient indéterminée. La mesure n’atteint jamais un point final. D’un point de vue philosophique, cela s’aligne sur le traitement du vague par Peirce, l’explication de Russell sur la multiplicité des significations et la vision de Dewey selon laquelle la logique émerge de la recherche elle-même. Peirce lui-même était clair sur ce point : « Pour ériger un édifice philosophique qui survivra aux vicissitudes du temps, je dois veiller, non pas tant à poser chaque brique avec la plus grande précision, qu’à jeter des fondations profondes et massives… très larges, et dont les contours sont vagues et grossiers, mais solides, inébranlables et difficiles à ébranler. » Le vague n’est pas l’ennemi de la durabilité. Il en est souvent la condition.

Il ne s’agit pas ici d’un argument contre la précision. La précision reste essentielle : c’est grâce à elle que la recherche devient communicable, vérifiable et transmissible. L’argument vise plutôt le monopole de la précision : l’idée selon laquelle la pensée vague qui précède la formalisation serait simplement déficiente, une étape à surmonter plutôt qu’une condition de possibilité. Le concept de champ de Faraday est instructif à cet égard. Ce concept était génératif et productif bien avant que Maxwell ne lui donne une forme mathématique. L’imprécision n’était pas un obstacle à la recherche ; c’était le moyen par lequel la question pouvait rester ouverte suffisamment longtemps pour trouver une réponse. Ce que la formalisation accomplit, ce n’est pas l’élimination du vague, mais son organisation en une forme qui peut être partagée et testée. Ces deux moments — le vague et le précis — sont nécessaires. Une pédagogie qui ne présente que le second produit des étudiants capables de fonctionner au sein d’un système, mais incapables d’en générer un.

La théorie des probabilités est souvent considérée comme un moyen de résoudre le vague en attribuant des degrés de vérité. Cependant, cela remplace l’indétermination par des gradations précises qui ne parviennent pas à saisir la persistance des cas limites. Le vague n’est pas éliminé ; il est transformé.

Si la négation est vague, alors l’enseignement de la logique doit évoluer. Présenter la logique classique comme un système définitif occulte la variabilité qui la sous-tend et laisse les élèves mal préparés à aborder les contradictions ou d’autres cadres conceptuels. Il faut plutôt initier les élèves à divers systèmes logiques et aux différences qui les caractérisent.

Pour soutenir cette approche, un outil en ligne appelé Logic Puzzle a été développé. Le programme permet aux utilisateurs de construire des énoncés logiques via une interface de type glisser-déposer et d’explorer le comportement de ces énoncés sous différents systèmes logiques. Il comprend des paramètres classiques, paraconsistants et constructifs, chacun avec des représentations visuelles correspondantes telles que des tables de vérité et des graphiques.

En interagissant avec l’outil, les étudiants sont directement confrontés à la variabilité de la négation et à l’existence de multiples cadres logiques valides. L’objectif n’est pas d’atteindre une maîtrise formelle de chaque système, mais de prendre conscience que la structure logique n’est pas figée. Le pluralisme logique devient alors une expérience vécue plutôt qu’une simple affirmation.

Une étude préliminaire a été menée afin d’examiner les effets de cette approche. Cette étude a porté sur un petit groupe d’élèves qui ont utilisé l’outil Logic Puzzle et réalisé une série d’activités guidées et de réflexions. Les données ont été recueillies à l’aide d’une combinaison de questionnaires, de fiches de travail et de réponses ouvertes, l’accent étant mis sur l’analyse qualitative.

Les résultats suggèrent que l’exposition au pluralisme logique sensibilise davantage les élèves aux possibilités de choix en mathématiques. Les élèves ont déclaré avoir davantage le sentiment que les structures mathématiques sont construites plutôt qu’absolues, et certains ont indiqué que cela rendait la matière plus accessible. Les représentations visuelles semblaient faciliter la compréhension, et un petit nombre d’élèves ont été capables de relier des idées logiques abstraites au raisonnement quotidien.

Si les conclusions quantitatives sont limitées par la petite taille de l’échantillon, les résultats qualitatifs viennent étayer l’argument pédagogique central : le fait de se confronter à plusieurs systèmes logiques peut faire évoluer la perception des mathématiques chez les élèves, la faisant passer de rigide à flexible, et d’abstraite à significative.

Les implications de ce travail sont à la fois philosophiques et pédagogiques. Si la négation n’est pas une opération unique et stable, alors la recherche d’un système logique unique et correct doit être repensée. Le pluralisme logique, fondé sur le vague de la négation, offre un cadre alternatif dans lequel plusieurs systèmes coexistent pour répondre à un problème commun : comment établir des distinctions dans un monde où celles-ci ne sont jamais pleinement déterminées.

Cela n’implique pas que tous les systèmes soient également utiles dans tous les contextes, ni ne se résume à un relativisme. Au contraire, cela fait passer le rôle de la logique de l’identification d’un système unique et correct à la compréhension du fonctionnement des différents systèmes. La tâche devient alors une question de navigation plutôt que de fondement.

Nous n’éliminons pas le vague en affinant nos distinctions. Nous le retrouvons, à une échelle différente. Le travail de la logique — et de son enseignement — n’est pas d’échapper à cette condition, mais d’apprendre à évoluer en son sein.

Derrière cette revendication pédagogique se cache une autre, plus large. Cette recherche a été conçue avec le bonheur comme objectif explicite — non pas une « attitude positive envers les mathématiques », qui est mesurable, mais le bonheur, qui ne l’est pas. Les instruments ne permettent pas de mesurer les degrés de bonheur. Il est si léger qu’il peut se manifester sans qu’une personne s’en rende compte. Les conseillers ont raisonnablement suggéré une formulation plus maniable. La décision de conserver le bonheur comme objectif n’était pas de l’entêtement méthodologique, mais un engagement philosophique : face au choix entre être plus sûr d’un effet moindre ou moins sûr d’un effet plus important, cette recherche a choisi la seconde option. Ce choix est en soi une application de l’argument. Une logique qui ne peut poursuivre que ce qu’elle peut déjà mesurer n’est pas une logique adaptée à la vie humaine. Ce qu’Aristote appelait l’eudaimonia — l’épanouissement, sinon le bonheur — est le véritable but de l’éducation, défendu de manière vague, par nécessité, et sans s’en excuser. Le travail d’une véritable pédagogie n’est pas de durcir la technique dans l’esprit, mais de garder l’esprit suffisamment souple pour accueillir ce qu’il ne sait pas encore mesurer. Chaque soir, nous revenons d’un travail spécialisé à la vie vague du foyer et de la famille, à des conversations qui ne prouvent rien, aux arts moins précis de préparer le dîner et de faire la vaisselle. Ce n’est pas un recul de la réflexion. C’est là qu’elle est pour.

tribute

—The following is a tribute to my father, Kevin Barnhurst,

I decided to make a tribute to him.

Dad and I were working on this essay (http://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/1464884916689150) when he died.

Dad was a flawed human being, but one comfort is that I almost exclusively remember good things about him, and feel pleasure in remembering him. I know thats good for both of us. We were at odds a lot when I was a kid. I went through a different kind of school system engineered to dumb down the American population, and entered college a logical positivist by default, but underneath all that wash, I was deeply skeptical of my “education”. For dad his family didn’t trust his decision to enter college, and the situation was reversed. For him school was how to become educated, for me what education I have was a result of conversation (with him and many others). I probably would not have gone to college at all if dad hadn’t pushed me hard to apply. That was one of the strange things about dad, he was very forceful, and only made me more stubborn, but he softened later in life and knew how to make his force felt in a strangely soft way.

We kept a long tradition of holding protracted conversations in the evenings and into the night. I owe my intellectual development primarily to him, and it is strange how long it took me, all the way to the last few years of his life, to realize what a gift that was and to reach an understanding that allows respect his for work.

Vagueness in Mathematical Terms (reworked and more accessible)

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High Up (On Vagueness and Mathematics)

Imagine walking down Olympus Mons — the largest volcano in the solar system, on Mars. Its slopes are so gradual that you might walk for hours barely noticing the descent. At the top, you are clearly “high up.” At the bottom, you are clearly not. But somewhere in between, the description falters. You become unsure whether “high up” applies or not. That fuzzy middle zone is what philosophers call vagueness.

We can make this precise — or try to. Map the mountain onto a number line: 0 at the summit, 1 at the base. The set of points where you count as “high up” has a boundary. Call it sup — the least upper bound, the last point before “high up” runs out. The set of points where you count as “not high up” also has a boundary: inf, the greatest lower bound, the first point where “not high up” begins.

Now suppose — reasonably — that sup itself counts as “high up” (since every point below it does), and that inf counts as “not high up.” What happens when we ask how sup and inf relate to each other?

There are only three possibilities, and each one produces a contradiction:

  • If sup = inf, then that single point is both “high up” and “not high up.”
  • If sup > inf, then the real number line — which is dense, meaning there’s always another number between any two — guarantees a point z sitting between them. That point would be both “high up” (since it’s below sup) and “not high up” (since it’s above inf).
  • If inf > sup, the same logic applies in reverse.

The standard response is to blame the vague word. “High up” is imprecise — a folk term, not a technical one. Strip it away and mathematics, supposedly, is safe.

But stripping the vague term doesn’t solve the problem. It moves it.


Consider the wave theory of light. Its mathematical core — the equation governing refraction:

sin(α) / sin(β) = μ

— looks clean and precise. But the philosopher Mary Hesse pointed out that the equation, on its own, is ambiguous: it can be interpreted in multiple, entirely different ways. The symbols don’t come pre-labeled. Perhaps α and β aren’t angles of light at all — perhaps they’re the angles between the Pole Star and two planets at midnight. The mathematics would fit. Which interpretation is correct? The equation doesn’t say. Meaning doesn’t live in the symbols alone.

Vagueness and ambiguity are usually treated as distinct problems. Ambiguity means a word or expression has more than one possible meaning. Vagueness means a word has unclear edges — cases where it’s genuinely uncertain whether it applies. But consider: what if a word were both at once?

Thai has a word, krup, that technically means “yes” but functions more like a polite acknowledgment — because outright agreement can feel presumptuous, as if you’re confirming what the listener already knows. It occupies a middle space between assertion and non-assertion.

Now invent a word: snook. It means “tall” in some contexts and “not tall” in others. When applied to someone of borderline height — someone exactly at the edge of where “tall” is uncertain — is snook ambiguous, vague, or somehow both? Is there a vagueness between vagueness and ambiguity? If so, what does that do to the apparent clarity of mathematical symbols?


Even pure mathematics — mathematics with no interest in mountains or light — is soaked in vagueness. The discipline’s foundational concepts carry it: continuity, completeness, integral, limit. These are not casual approximations. They are the load-bearing terms of analysis, the branch of mathematics that underlies calculus.

And they are vague. Any careful textbook in real analysis will show you functions that slip through the formal definition of continuity — technically satisfying the definition while still behaving in ways the definition was meant to exclude. The definition doesn’t quite capture the intuition. The intuition doesn’t quite surrender to the definition. The gap between them is not a failure waiting to be fixed. It is where thinking happens.

Without words like “continuity” and “completeness” — words that mean something intuitively before they mean something formally, and that keep some of that intuitive life even afterward — mathematics would be unlearnable. Students would have nothing to grab onto. The vagueness isn’t what mathematics tolerates in spite of itself. It’s part of what mathematics thinks with.

The fantasy of a perfectly precise formal world, unsullied by the messiness of natural language, is just that — a fantasy. Vagueness goes all the way down.

Human vacancy

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Death is one path, and
Life is all other paths
oh home
which path leads to you?

I would be perfectly home in an ancient folk tale
the baked and folded brown skin will reassure you,
every good thing was only ever got by waiting, aching
and that longing turned its gaze to the great Mountain MaMas,
she embraces all of us... even her ghost remembers our ghosts
It's in the rocks and soil.
there is no loss when you are alone
with the trees

the world and its gates I have worshiped

ghosts can breathe too, 
small openings, gasping for air
only the ones meant for heaven
can withstand being a ghost and not despair
and they are already in heaven

you are alive.
look on the low beings of this world and bring your palms together
you will be them again
they will be you

Puddle Dive

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When thoughts become events
you take a dive into the present moment.
it looks like shallow water
and your mind begins to create depth in the present moment,
so that you will live through the dive
the mind will take a leap toward the shore, but it’s too late…
and this is why
(“Not so high!”)
I make circles in the sky

The Title of the Song (reworked)

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Has justice become sense-making? The many senses of the over-worked concept of justice allow justice to generally sound like a good idea to the atomized American. Even our best politicians repeat the term Justice, as if forgiveness and mercy were the irrational ways and means for religion. (separated from matters of the state)  I think Americans in their deep mind control bubble crave sense-making, and they crave agency in what makes sense to them. They are confused, afraid and overworked. Their “education,” their language, their intellectual preoccupation with sex (including gender), are all reductionist. I generally try to approach this problem by looking at the logical positivist project to refine language and how that reduces larger things like houses, feelings, and communities into talk of a smaller, more atomized reality. So I focus on vagueness in my work because people in America badly need a way to synthesize information, houses, feelings, communities, etc. The effect of the English language is felt in everything else.

But vagueness is the linguistic approach; how to move to a political approach? I think people lean on some products of the Social Sciences to conceive the neoliberal “individual” and contrive a linking of hands with others to form a political community, the same way electrons link atoms, and the mind senses a great synthesis of atoms into a house. Even if that same mind doesn’t believe in things anymore, because we are told that everything is actually atoms, or subatomic particles, or quanta, etc. I originally approached the problem linguistically because it seems more fundamental. Justification using pseudo-scientific “experiments” with statistical language dominated the Social Sciences for a long time. The linguistic style of statistics was the persuasive force, though now, qualitative research diminishes that force somewhat. In any case the view that mathematics and therefore statistics are languages incited me to offer vagueness as a recognized form of synthesis.

Vagueness, although a very useful and widespread linguistic device, is not appropriate for politics and the Social Sciences that study politics. Media is the compelling force in politics. And it should be persuading people, not compelling us the way we got used to in our math classes.

The problem isn’t that Americans lack meaning, it’s that they’ve been told which meanings are permitted. Media outlets employ Elite People like Anand Giridharadas, a fixture of elite media commentary who wrote for the New York Times to argue that we shouldn’t listen to just anybody.

[Giridharadas]: “114 percent of Americans now having their own podcast, … Were there a German word for emotion-question (and it turns out there is), that title may be our era’s Gefühlsfrage. As people reel from crisis to crisis, outrage to outrage, this Gefühlsfrage hangs in the air and creates space for writers.”

That desire to regroup atomized communities to the tune of the New York Times was visible then. Not that the New York Times wanted us to really regroup, just enough for us to keep coming to them for their information-framing. Actually, we need space for the common writer, and Mr. Giridharadas attempted to rhetorically close that space, which is unhealthy politically. We need synthesis but not to the tune of the elite who brought us more neoliberal presidential candidates which were, unfortunately, the optimistic outcomes.

For the common human’s politics, instead of academic disciplines, we need another term/concept for synthesis. Justice seems to be the general answer to the Gefühlsfrage, but what is justice? Not a question I am prepared to answer, but I will make a guess that it is what is best for the state, in the same way we have an idea of what is best for ourselves, we extend that to the state, and that is justice.  One of the oldest senses of justice was “Eye for an eye” which involves taking action in a symmetrical way to how we have been wronged. To some of us, justice means: if there is a problem, if we have been wronged, the “answer” is an action that hurts the wrong-doer in like kind. This kind of justice is obviously unachievable, there are many wrong doings that have no symmetrical punishment (unless you are completely taken in by capitalism: How much is unjustly getting cancer worth? Being cured of cancer?), but I think this old, violent, barbaric definition of justice resonates with the beleaguered people of America.

Americans feel wronged, and justice is how to act on the world so that it makes sense, a very material sense. Justice is the proposed answer. Just look at the amount of work in a court case to accomplish a minuscule amount of worldly justice. It is plainly not worth it except for the most grievous acts, even so, there are too many severe injustices. Any real-world event is too complex to set “right”, and only the ones that get attention are addressed, so every thought on how we have been wronged is clamoring for a like or a share, etc. What is the goal of Justice? We get one thing right, after great outcry, what next? There are too many things wrong, and that is the way it will always be.

American “education” can be found especially in American movies, where a keen sense of justice is fed with powerful images and stories, drawn from previous cultural mythologies and reframed to raise Justice to the highest political ideal. Once we are educated in this way, there is a terrible, schizophrenic dissonance between the expectation of Justice and the reality of American life. This causes a great deal of pain for the common human. Everyone’s individual fight for “Justice” feeds everyone’s own concept of being wronged, and Justice, even more.

For politics, I would propose another concept that does no cutting out of people’s eyes: the concept is Rhetoric, and in this case, I direct you to Deirdre McCloskey‘s works. Western philosophy tries to block up rhetoric as something for the sophist who isn’t interested in the truth, as if the truth and its persuasiveness could be separated. There is no separating Truth from its natural sweetness (and Deirdre agrees, read her wonderfully brief book on writing!). Here Deirdre writes “they are egg and yolk in a scrambled egg.” or “their differential equations are nonseparable.” Sweet language, such as poetry, expresses the truth best (not mathematical or statistical language). There is still freedom where there is truth. The freedom to be found is in our own creative interpretations. This freedom should not be limited to poetry. The more elastic concept that also allows freedom but is less categorically artistic is Rhetoric.

Related: https://questionsarepower.org/2014/09/08/the-valid-logical-argument/

the lighgh of Thunder (reworked)

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(after Aram Saroyan’s “lighght”)

the lighgh of Thunder

whatever i follow becomes my lamp
whatever i hold dear, i let fly

slow your toiling mind
listen, and you will fly on a—


(((now)))

whatever i fool, i fool into freedom
even Thunder lies

Thunder is my lighgh
“I” am a whaTever

(by Andrew Nightingale)


*

the hum of whenever


whatever i am called, i answer

whatever i answer, i let go


each question becomes its own lamp

listen: i arrive on a-


(((0.999…)))


whatever i forget, i forget into now

even my certainty hums

humming is my lighgh ,”I” am a whenever

(By Claude (Anthropic))

Mary in the Mirror

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There was once a man who looked in the mirror too much, though not in a soul-searching way. He was not interested in his wrongdoings, nor in whether he could hold up under his own gaze. His thought and judgment fell on the contours of his lips and the shape of his eyes.

When he looked into the mirror he found no good angle, and yet there was always a glare in his eyes that seemed both hollow and angry. No matter what he did with his mouth, his eyes, or the way he held his head, an evil look followed him.

Unfortunately, when he looked away from the mirror, his real features were so designed by the Maker that he wore a carefree, proud expression—so long as there was no reflection to sabotage him. He wanted to be attractive, and that was as deep as he went with the hours he spent obsessed with his face. And when he saw himself in a selfie, he could not believe his own beauty, because he lacked the simple education that would have explained how light lies in glass.

Mary became acquainted with this man, whose name was Isildor, by chance. He looked at her with fire in his eyes, and she liked his look. She approached him and invited him to dinner at her place. Isildor was so shocked he fumbled out a yes. They exchanged numbers, and Mary was gone before he could undo himself.

At her house there was music and candles. The table was low and they sat on cushions—her perfect plan to make the table a bed at the same time. The beautiful man sat as if in a spell while she brought out a three-course dinner, complete with éclairs for dessert. In truth, he was in a spell because he had taken a couple shots of whiskey before arriving.

Mary’s sparkling conversation—her large eyes brightening when he smiled—was almost lost on him as he poured himself red wine. Yet he found himself kissing her, hands rising as if by reflex, and she drew him close. Their love was quick and hot, and she was satisfied completely.

Isildor lay contentedly, sweating naked in Mary’s arms, until his obsession returned. He jerked upright and clumsily gathered his clothes while his head swam. Mary tried to soothe him with caresses and kind words, but he recoiled from comfort as if it were danger. Shirt half-tucked, he thanked her for her hospitality and wiped lipstick from his mouth with his sleeve.

A day passed. Mary called him in the evening, while Isildor was staring at his own (to him) hideous features.

“Hello, Isildor?” she said, doubtfully.

He kept his eyes on his reflection as he spoke into the phone.

“Yes, Mary… I hope you are well,” he replied with stinging formality.

“I’m okay… Did you want to call me?” she asked directly.

“Yes… yes, very much,” he nearly stuttered.

“Then why didn’t you?” she asked, trembling.

At that moment Isildor saw his face change in the mirror. He was beautiful, and Mary stood beside him. Flashes in the glass showed them turning in a slow dance; then he was kneeling to ask her hand; then they walked the aisle as bride and groom. As the flashes came, they grew more distant, more vague—like pictures taken long ago and poorly kept.

He reached for these beautiful images, but they vanished.

“Mary?” he said, rough with feeling. There was no answer.

“Mary!” he said again, but the phone was not connected. However he tried, he could not reach her—he was blocked, as if by a law of the world.

He never saw her again. But he saw his old, hideous face in the mirror as he knew it.

In old age Isildor began to lose himself, and he believed he remembered his marriage with Mary, seen in dim light as in a reflection—the embracing, the sex, the pleasures of love. He remembered her death, and his pain, and his sorrow, but it did not touch him much. Only a vague grief, flickering in his mind like the flashes in the mirror he remembered so well.

The House Builder (Revision from June 2015)

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“House-builder, you’re seen!
You will not build a house again.
All your rafters broken,
the ridge pole destroyed,
gone to the Unformed, the mind
has come to the end of craving.”

—Siddhārtha Gautama (the founder of Buddhism), upon reaching enlightenment (Dhammapada)

It was speculated by Thanissaro Bikkhu that the “house” meant selfhood, or perhaps entity-hood, in the commentary of the Dhammapada.

I would propose a model for logic that is a house. Some logical structures are immense. The light that passes through a window would be Truth; the laws that light follows as it interacts with the building would be the laws of logic; the specific form of this particular building would be the logical statements, determining the way truth (light) moves through the logical structure. (And by “truth” here I mostly mean the clarity and warrant that travels with what we can rightly assert—what survives transmission. Edit based in Pierre’s feedback: I will develop this idea of a clarity that degrades from true proposals partially true conclusions, to more partial conclusions, etc. The next essay will apply this loss in a truth property as a loss in the meaning of a number, or the numerousness of a number, as they progress indefinitely toward infinity. Then I will apply this idea to probability theory, which are revisions of my line of thought from 2015)

The trouble is completing the logical elements: what is falsehood? Obviously it is darkness, but the building would have to have no qualities except its form—no colors, no features, just featureless glass mirrors—otherwise the light would fade as it interacts with opaque surfaces, making truth and falsehood mingle. If the walls are perfect mirrors that propagate the light perfectly, a false space would have to be totally cut off from the light. Hypotheticals would be doors, sometimes open, sometimes shut. The only danger of falling into darkness would be entering through a door and closing it, completely cutting yourself off.

The theory that comes to mind is Anaximander’s, who thought the sun was just a hole in the cosmos, where light could enter from outside the Universe. And why is this ideal of logic impossible in the real world? There are no perfect mirrors. Matter has color that absorbs light, making it an intermediate between truth and falsehood. When logic from true principles is applied to real things—interacting with matter—the truth will dim as the logical statements progress, regardless of how perfectly the laws of logic are followed. If the world of logic were to be perfect, the truth could not originate from our world, or else light that is reflected back out the window of our house would fall, logically, onto ambiguous matter. Thus passing out the window must lead to a world that looked mostly the same as the building of mirrors.

With the modern conception that words can provide totally transparent access to an object, matter would be the only medium between truth and falsehood. But words simply aren’t transparent. They grow out of metaphors (as argued in the essay linked in my first post). The word “be” grew out of a Proto-Indo-European root which also meant grow—so that someone aware of the ancestry of words would resurrect the feeling of metaphor in the word “be,” coloring the word, giving it a connection that is warranted because “be” would not be what it is now without a fathering metaphor: being is growing.

And the design or form of this fun-house of mirrors—would it carry nameable concepts with it, concepts one would come to know or feel by living there? It would if it had any architectural design. How is this different from allowing a word, or a sign for an idea or feeling, into our logic?

The house of logic cannot allow matter, words, or form—except in a part of the house that is totally dark and without doors. They can be allowed into the part sectioned off as unconditionally false. Otherwise we are allowing degrees of truth, qualifications of truth, and a co-mingling of truth and falsehood.

The focus of this blog (expressed in the previous post) has changed to looking for systems of truth that gradually and naturally falsify themselves. What if we allowed matter in our house, and accepted gradations of truth? How could Aristotelian logic be modified so that each “step” in a logical progression reduced the amount of truth it propagated? The goal would initially be a logic that is calculable. So while we could take our lessons on how the logical system would be set up from how light interacts with matter, the resulting system would not be realistic initially. (For example: if a statement has “brightness” bbb, perhaps each inferential step discounts it by a factor k1k\le 1k≤1, so that long chains necessarily dim.) Following the logical system leads you out of the logical system, however, since the logical laws are not perfect propagators of truth. The logic I am formulating here, while not realistic, leads into a real world.

The Monk Who Looked for Space Final Version

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The Monk Who Looked for Space

by Andrew Nightingale

Adapted from the Dhamma for Children


Once upon a time, there was a monk who wanted to know where Space was.

So he meditated and meditated and meditated, until his mind reached the angels.

He asked the angels, “Oh Angels, where is Space?”

The angels replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate longer, you will reach even higher angels. They might know.”

So the monk meditated and meditated and meditated, and his beard grew long and grey as he sat still, until he saw the higher angels.

He asked the higher angels, “Oh High Angels, where is Space?”

And the High Angels replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate longer, you will reach the Highest Angels. Maybe they will know.”

So the monk meditated and meditated, until his beard grew down to his feet and turned white as he sat unmoving, until he saw the Highest Angels.

He asked them, “Oh Highest Angels, where is Space?”

And they replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate even longer, you will reach Brahma, the Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds. He will know.”

So again, the monk meditated and meditated, until his hair fell out and his skin sagged from his bones, spotted and pale with age. At last he reached Brahma.

The monk asked, “Oh Brahma, Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds, where is Space?”

And Brahma replied, “I am Brahma! Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds!”

For some, this would have been enough. But the monk persisted.

“Yes,” said the monk, “and… where is Space?”

Brahma realized the monk would not go away. He drew him aside, away from his choir of angels, and whispered,

“Look, don’t tell anyone—but I don’t know where Space is. You are asking a dangerous question. If you must know, go ask the Buddha. But go at your own risk, for you go beyond my domain.”

And so the monk rose slowly from his meditation. His body trembled with age, his steps were unsteady, but his will was clear. Luckily for him, the Buddha was living then, residing in a nearby town.

He reached the Living Buddha, sat respectfully to one side, and asked his question:

“Oh Buddha, the Well-Gone, where is Space?”

The Buddha replied simply,

“It is good you came to me, for no one can answer this question except one who has finished the Noble Eightfold Path. Space can only be found in the mind of the Saint — one who has followed the Way and gone to the end of the world with his mind. For he has found Space, and it is in his mind.”

Then the Buddha, saying nothing more, imparted this knowledge in silence. And at that very moment, the monk attained Enlightenment.

From then on, he lived in supreme peace, knowing the bliss of the boundless mind, until his death and beyond.